


The Heavy Crown

by Tanaqui



Category: The Shield Ring - Rosemary Sutcliff
Genre: Arranged Marriage, F/M, Wedding Night, sutcliff_swap 2020
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-03
Updated: 2020-05-03
Packaged: 2021-03-01 22:08:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,438
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23984323
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tanaqui/pseuds/Tanaqui
Summary: The War has cast a shadow over the life of the Dale since before Gerd was born. Why should she expect anything different on her wedding day or in the weeks afterwards?
Relationships: Gille Butharson/Gerd Hakonsdaughter
Comments: 3
Kudos: 11
Collections: Sutcliff Swap 2020





	The Heavy Crown

**Author's Note:**

  * For [riventhorn](https://archiveofourown.org/users/riventhorn/gifts).



> _In a little they were gone, Aikin and Gille, Bjorn and Erland and the rest of the Sword-band. And behind them others were going every moment, Northmen and Saxon, chieftain and earl, taking their weapons and turning from the firelight and the Bride ale and the small white-faced bride, whose crown seemed suddenly too heavy for her, to their War-bands waiting in the dark fells. — “The Crown and the Long-Ship” The Shield Ring_

Gille handed the Greeting-Cup back to Gerd with a brief word of thanks, already turning away to call to the others who had come back with him after half a moon away harrying the advancing Normans. To Jon and Ottar and Erland and, with a touch on the shoulder, Bjorn, who still held Frytha close in a fierce, one-armed hug, his own empty Greeting-Cup dangling forgotten from his other hand.

Gerd stood amidst the bustle of horses being led away and the young warriors following Gille into the Hearth Hall and felt her face grow pinched and tight. She would not—not— _not_ cry, she told herself. She wrapped her arms around her and took a deep breath and another deep breath, standing still amongst all the hurly-burly.

Then the Countess was at her elbow, looking down at her with something — a softening — about her gaze that made it all the harder for Gerd to breathe. Not pity, Gerd thought desperately. I won’t, won’t, won’t cry. But all the Countess said, quite gently, was,“Come, they will be wanting us to take the ale-jars round.”

It seemed a long time before Gille and the others were done with eating and drinking, while they made their report to the Jarl, and for a while after. The ale-jar grew heavy on Gerd’s hip while she waited for one of the men or another to call for an empty ale-horn to be refilled. But, finally, they were climbing to their feet.

Gille was amongst the last of them, stretching out his weariness for a moment before he moved to greet his mother. I won’t cry, Gerd thought to herself, even as she saw the Countess take a half step back and say something quite short and sharp that made Gille’s head jerk around to look at Gerd with a startled expression on his face.

Then he was coming towards her and stopping in front of her, his anxious eyes fixed on her face as he dipped his head in salute. “My Lady Wife?” He held out his hand to her.

Gerd froze for a moment and then carefully set down the ale-jar and took his hand. What else could she do? She was aware, as they looked at each other, of a sudden hush and of people swinging around to watch them, and of her throat closing up so that she could not speak.

It could have been no more than a few heartbeats that they stood so, before she drew herself up straighter and turned and, drawing him after her, walked proudly through the silent crowd towards the door to the bower. Not for them to leave amongst the uproar of a half-drunk crowd, busy with riddle-telling and boasting and calling for the ale-horns to be filled, with only here and there a few ribald comments as they went.

At last, the door to the bower closed behind them. Outside in the Hall, she heard a splurge of voices again, but she led Gille on, out through the garth door into the deepening dusk, and on to the garth-bower that was set a little apart from the Hearth Hall.

And then Gille was closing the door to the garth-bower behind him and all the world was shut out and it was just the two of them. Gerd let go of Gille’s hand. “There will be warm water by and by for you to wash,” she said, marvelling to hear her voice was so steady and cool. She crossed to the hearth and swung the kettle back across the smouldering fire and poked the flames back to life. 

Turning back, she saw in the leaping, uncertain light that he stood where she had left him. She came back to him, reaching up to unfasten the shoulder buckles of his battle-sark. He put his hand over hers to stop her.

“Gerd, I’m sorry.” She heard him swallow, but her gaze was fixed on his hand over her hands on the buckle. “I had—. I had—.” Then, all in a rush: “The fighting, it came so hard on the heels of the Bride ale, and so fierce, that I, that I... I had forgot I had... I _have_ a wife.”

She pressed her lips together. I won’t, I won’t, I won’t cry, she told herself.

When she didn’t move or reply, he said, sounding a little desperate, “I am sorry, Gerd. Truly.” He reached out his other hand to tip up her chin so she must look at him and she saw in his eyes that there was no lie to his words. “The All-Father knows that not for all the world would I wish to ever hurt you.”

“I know,” she answered. And she did know. Gille had never been unkind to her—when he took the time to think of her. When they were first betrothed, he had spent many hours carving her a wooden doll. She kept it still, hidden at the bottom of her clothes kist. In summer, sometimes he would seek her out with a handful of sweet berries gathered on his way home from an errand. Less often as time went on, for the fighting kept him from away from Butharsmere when the berries were ripening. But on winter nights in the Hearth Hall, he had always been willing to play a game of Fox and Geese whenever she asked and to let her win far more often than she should. Yet she knew that she was not as often in his thoughts as he was in hers.

He went on looking at her, seemingly unsure that she did know and understand—and forgive him. She managed a smile and a nod of her head, though her throat was closed too tight for words. He returned the smile with his own slow one. Then he abruptly slid his hand to cup her cheek and leaned forwards to brush his lips against hers.

Only twice before had he kissed her like this: like a lover and not a brother. The first time had been a week before the wedding, a surprise and clumsy on both sides. Not unpleasant, but she had felt none of the flutterings or giddiness the other girls had spoken of when they gossiped about stolen moments with whichever boy had lately taken their fancy. For Gille and her, there had never been any possibility of feeling anything for anyone else, so best not to feel it. Or, if he had felt it—how could she know?—best to forget as soon as might be.

Afterwards, she realised that the first kiss was a sort of practice for the kiss that would be demanded at the Bride ale: a kindness for both of them. They had managed well enough then, with a glance exchanged to steel themselves before he stooped to catch her mouth with his for long enough to satisfy the guests.

Now, as his lips brushed against hers, she found to her surprise that her mouth chased after his when he pulled away, capturing his lips again and returning the kiss. He startled and then his hand tightened over hers and he began to kiss her back: a little more firmly, but quite carefully, as if he were afraid or uncertain — or about some task he would rather avoid, but which duty and honour bound him to. 

The thought made her draw back, her eyes once more finding his hand over hers. He stood unmoving for a few heartbeats and then took half a pace back. “Will the water be warmed yet?” he asked, his voice hoarse.

She swallowed down the lump in her throat and managed to croak out. “Not yet, I think, but surely it will be ready when I have helped you out of your battle-sark.”

He gently let go of her hand and she went back to working on the buckles of the sark until they were all undone. He shucked the sark and she carried it away to lay on one of the clothes kists. When she turned back, he had sat down on a stool by the hearth and was wrestling with his boots. She knelt before him and helped him out of those, too. Then, while he pulled his tunic over his head, she lifted the kettle from the fire and poured the warmed water into a wide basin set near to the hearth.

Setting the kettle back onto the fire, she faced him again. “There is cold water in the jug, and a cloth for drying and—.”

“I see it.” He handed her the tunic and turned away to the basin.

Scooping up his boots from where he had let them fall, she set them beside the clothes kist before folding — and refolding and refolding — the tunic and setting it down for laundering. The sark needed attention too: a little straightening and the straps folded more neatly. At last, she picked up the clean tunic she had set ready and turned back to him.

He had shed his breeks and stood half turned away from her, with his naked skin golden in the firelight as he sluiced away the grime of the past days. Well enough did she know how men’s bodies were made that there was no great surprise, but still her breath caught in her throat as her gaze took in the strength in every line of him: broad shoulders and powerful arms and long legs and sure hands. A days-old bruise was yellowing and fading on his hip, above the pucker of a long-healed sword cut on his thigh. 

As she watched, as if spellbound by a _huldrekall_ wandered in from the wood, he leaned forward and splashed water on his head and the back of his neck, scrubbing his hands through his hair. He straightened, drops of water spraying out to hiss in the fire or fall among the fresh-strewn rushes as he reached for the rough cloth to dry himself.

He swung around to face her, pushing his water-darkened hair back from his face with one hand as he dropped the cloth next to the basin with the other. He lifted his gaze to look at her and she looked back at him, frozen like a wild animal in the moment before its flight. 

The beginnings of a frown marring his forehead made her shake herself from her stupor. She moved forward, thrusting the clean tunic at him. He took it and held it in his hands before him, his gaze searching her face anxiously. “You haven’t combed out your hair yet....”

She shook her head wordlessly.

He swallowed. “Is it... is it that you don’t want...?”

“No!” She clenched her fists at her sides. “I mean, yes! I mean, I do.” She added, a little hopelessly. “I mean, we _must_ , mustn’t we?” She didn’t know quite what she wanted, except that maybe she did want to lie with him and she was very afraid that, after all, he maybe didn’t want to lie with her.

He carried on looking at her steadily, though his mouth quirked a little. “Yes, I suppose we must,” he answered.

Then he let the clean tunic fall to one side and took a pace forward. He reached out and untied the ribbon that bound one of her braids. He let that, too, fall to the floor. The second ribbon followed. His gaze fixed on her face, he began to loosen her braids, separating strand from strand and combing his fingers through her hair until it hung loose around her shoulders. 

She stood quietly while he worked, her heart thudding in her chest and her breath coming more quickly as she looked back at him. When he was done, he gently caught her head between his hands and brought his mouth down on to hers.

There was nothing cautious or careful about this kiss — or her response. She flung her arms around his neck and kissed him back just as hungrily, pressing herself against him as a sudden fire ran through her veins and heat pooled in her belly. His hands were between them, clumsily unlacing her kirtle, but the two of them went on with that long, desperate kiss even as she let go of him to let him push the kirtle back from her shoulders. They only broke apart long enough for him to help her drag her undertunic and shift over her head, before they came back together, naked flesh sparking against naked flesh like a struck flint. Soon, he was lifting her and carrying her over to the darkness of the great box-bed.

Stretched out side by side on their marriage bed, Gille quieted their lovemaking, his fire not quenched but banked as he turned as gentle as a woodsman taming a wild animal and as patient as a craftsman mastering a new skill. Slowly and slowly, they learned to know each other and how their bodies should fit together. There was no _must_ , only two hearts coming together to learn to love more deeply than either had thought possible.

Afterwards, they lay beside each other, Gerd’s head on Gille’s shoulder and his arm around her. She listened to his slow, steady breathing, savouring the moment. But all too soon, her mind was leaping ahead.

“You will be away again tomorrow?” she said, only half a question.

She felt him nod. “When we have broken fast, yes.” He tightened his arm around her. “This time, I will not forget I have a wife waiting at home for me.”

Suddenly, Gerd understood what she had not understood before. She had thought it a fine thing to be married to Gille, who would be Jarl one day and she Countess. To be the centre of life in Hearth Hall and bower, and mother of the next Jarl, and to have the other women fluttering around her and doing her bidding. And so it would be a fine thing. But to be Countess was also this: the fear and the loneliness — and to show no fear or loneliness to any, not even the man who lay beside her now. Gille and the others of the War Band might need strength of arms to defend their land, but Gerd — like the Countess Tordis — must be heart-strong.

Gerd closed her eyes and made a vow, to Christ and to the All-Father: For the sake of Gille, who had many cares beside her, but who was kind and patient and who loved her — despite her faults and though he had not chosen her — she would be strong.

**Author's Note:**

> _Gerd, who lay curled against [Frytha], stirred in her sleep [...]. Little soft spoiled Gerd, who had laid aside her softness and her spoiling to sleep hard and toil behind the War-bands and tend wounded men among the heather. — “The Mazelin” The Shield Ring_


End file.
